The stars were once beautiful, now they are just a new way to torture myself. When I look up all I see is you, and how you said the night sky is always purple blue. I used to love it, now I despise it...

Why isnt always the question, sometimes it can be the answer

Criticism is the root of emotional pain.

He is, and he isnt. What makes his darkest thoughts his solace, and his darkest reflections, his salvation?